HELL-TV
by Lampito
Summary: HELL-TV. It's like a pirated cable service, where Crowley can channel infernal power to watch history that almost happened, but didn't quite make it. (Of course, he has to get somebody younger than 200 years to connect it for him.) Fifty channels; and every one of them showing the Winchesters. A series of one-shots about almost-history. Silliness guaranteed.
1. Welcome to HELL-TV

_What is HELL-TV?_

Well may you ask.

In the Jimiverse, where I write my fanfics, it's a sort of cable service available from Hell, on which you can watch also-ran versions of history that didn't quite make it into reality.

Crowley uses it like a sort of pirated Netflix, partly to plot his own schemes, but also because it takes a lot of infernal power and abuse of power is practically a Key Performance Indicator for the King of Hell.

Technically, it's a bit tricky to set up; like any new and complicated technology, the older you are, the harder it is to be an early adopter. He's found that he needs the help of a fiend who's less than 200 years old to get it connected and tuned.

What really cheeses him off is that, like so much of anything he tries to do, it usually finishes up revolving around the Winchesters.

None of the stories depicted on HELL-TV ever happened. But some of them went very close.

Like the one where Sam claimed the Red Throne, assumed the title of Lord of Hell, and installed a bouncy castle in the throne room for his brother.

Or the one where Dean auditioned for the Bolshoi Ballet.

Every episode on every channel has one thing in common: they are all very, very silly.

Since some of the people who read my stories have found hints about HELL-TV programs to be amusing, and a plot bunny came hopping along with a script for a full episode, I thought it might be worth setting up a new collection of one-shots to see if any more bunnies came along to add to the silliness. If you think you have a plot bunny with an idea, you can always shoo it in this direction, leave it in the reviews, and we'll see if it matures into anything.

Meanwhile, grab the remote, and let's have a look at what the first one came up with...


	2. The Family Channel: 'Thankful'

No idea where this little plot bunny came from; it's expanded on a very brief description of something from an earlier story. I think its name might be Pollyanna.

* * *

 **HELL-TV: The Family Channel – 'Thankful'**

John was the one who had been a Marine, but anybody who really knew the Winchesters understood that it was Mary who was really the strong one. Anyone who thought about it a little more deeply might've decided that it was because Mary was the one who placed such a high importance on family.

When their house burned down when Sam was just a baby, she was the one who put him in Dean's arms and told his big brother to run outside and not look back, whilst she pulled her husband away from his fruitless effort to fight the flames and dragged him outside to safety just in time before the roof timbers began to collapse. Although they were all still in a state of shock, she insisted that they have a Thanksgiving dinner of take-out chicken, with a pumpkin pie for Dean, in the poky motel room into which they crowded, because, she reminded them all sternly, they were alive, and together, and had a lot to be thankful for.

When John fought the mental demons of Vietnam for years after his tours had finished, it was Mary who cared for their boys when he was too drunk even to remember their names; it was she who eventually pulled him out of the bottle he'd crawled into, and knit the family back together again. The Thanksgiving after John had been sober for a full year, little Sammy actually wanted to sit on his father's knee to watch the turkey being carved, and even offered suggestions, to the hilarity of the family.

When Dean turned into a devil-may-care, class-skipping car enthusiast, she was the one who read him the riot act, and insisted that at the very least he gain his GED, keeping his feet on the ground even as his talent and passion for high performance driving soared. The Thanksgiving after he received his results, Mary piped CONGRATULATIONS MR G.E.D. onto the pumpkin pie; this resulted in Dean attempting to claim the whole thing, and subsequently Sam and John sitting on him until she had cut it into equal pieces, her elder son howling in protest the whole time at being deprived of extra pie.

When Sam grew into a moody teenager with enough 'tude to fuel several rap crews, Mary was the one who stopped the fights with his father in their tracks, metaphorically banging their heads together before they actually started on each other with fists. The Thanksgiving her youngest spent with a female friend's family was a disappointment to Mary, but she realised that, raising two sons, sometimes it was necessary for a mother to pick her battles.

Her boys grew into men, and the chicks flew the nest, with their own lives to lead. She didn't feel the empty nest syndrome the way some parents in her situation would, though – Mary was as proud as hell to see both her babies go out into the world to make their own way. And if they could possibly contrive it, they always came back to the family home for Thanksgiving.

When Dean was offered a trial as a driver for a factory Formula One team, her parting gift was the money for the plane ticket.

When Sam left to join the Marines, her parting gift was a double-edged knife with ornate engraving on the handle that would have gotten him arrested in some states. (It was a very long time before he found out how she came to possess such a weapon, but he took it with him on every mission and it saved his life on a couple of occasions.)

It was Mary who, on the rare occasions when both her sons were home to visit, maintained decorum around the dinner table, no mean feat with her three boisterous menfolk affectionately trash-talking each other. Thanksgiving gatherings became a little easier once Sam married Jessica, and she had another woman on her side to help her double-team all that testosterone. It became a little easier again once the first grandchild arrived, because all she had to do was give them The Look – "You use salty language in front of Deanna, and I will make you all wish you didn't have balls for me to kick" – to pull them into a veneer of civility.

Dean lost his left foot, and nearly his life, in a horror race crash in excess of 200 mph. It was mid-winter when he came home to recover. John struggled to cope with the idea that his firstborn had been maimed. Mary sat in his hospital room with him, chatting as she knitted him socks to keep his stump warm, and brought him a large piece of her home-baked pumpkin pie, because it was his favourite Thanksgiving dish and the hospital food, as he told her long loud and bitterly, just didn't cut it.

Sam lost his left foot, and nearly his life, to an IED. John was the one who cried like a distressed child at the sight of his baby boy in ICU; Mary took hold of her son's hand, squeezed it, and told him firmly that when he woke up, and she knew for a fact he would, she intended to scold him for his carelessness over a belated family Thanksgiving dinner.

They did, of course, gather for that belated celebration, during which Dean and Sam ribbed each other mercilessly, each claiming that the other clearly had the more dangerous day job, until Mary declared that if the argument did not stop immediately, there would be no pumpkin pie for either of them. It was a threat she had used over the table since they were children, and it still worked most effectively.

People could look at the Winchesters, and marvel at what a strong woman Mary was.

They didn't know the half of it.

With Jessica taking the kids to visit Grandma and Grandpa Moore, but telling Sam to head back to his family because she knew how much it meant to him, both her sons arrived on her doorstep, loudly announcing their arrivals and demanding to be fed. It made her smile to see them both walk up the drive without limping, and then chuckle outright as they sat on the sofa, comparing prosthetics, than continue the discussion over the dinner table.

"I wonder how many normal families have to put up with this sort of thing," John noted in bemusement as Dean gave Sam a complete rundown of how he'd be happy to rebuild his little brother's prosthesis with much improved hydraulics.

"We aint normal," Dean observed, returning to his spiel without missing a beat.

"It could be worse," Mary shrugged philosophically, "Considering the tone of some of the conversations that have taken place at this table."

"Dean, no," Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, shooting his brother one of the bitchy faces he'd been cultivating since before he could walk, "This has been custom fitted to me, and it works fine."

"Yeah, but it could be better," Dean insisted, stabbing another potato, "The first time you get sand in the guts of it, it'll seize up, and you'll be stuck, like a great big emo one-legged scarecrow. Or walkin' around in circles."

"I've tested it under field conditions," Sam replied a little smugly. "It's designed to keep shit out of the workings."

"Sam! Language!" snapped Mary, glaring at him.

"Look, it's like everything supplied to the military," Dean waved his fork expansively, then subsided as his mother turned her stern gaze on his terrible table manners, "It's provided by whoever says they can do it the cheapest, right?"

"That doesn't matter if it fits the specs," Sam protested, "And it does just that. It does the job, and there's a chance I can go operational again."

"Operational?" John's eyebrows rose. "You can do that?"

"Well, maybe not if I wanted to join the paratroops," Sam smiled, "But these things have come a long way since you were in. They might not let me, though," he added, "I'm being headhunted as instructor material, and they're not being subtle about it."

"Take it as a compliment," suggested his father, "They want you to teach the youngsters what you know."

"That won't take long," grinned Dean. "I can just see it now, Sergeant Sammy, tellin' all these little baby Marines what to do, and they'll be told, if you don't get it right, we'll feed you to the great big emo bitch..."

"Dean! Language!"

"I know you know I was promoted last year," Sam growled, "So that's 'Major Winchester' to you."

"Oooh, I go all tingly when you come over all military like that," Dean grinned as infuriating as he knew how.

"God, you're an asshole."

"Sam! Language!"

"How did a great big girl like you get in, anyway? Hey, you know what I've always wondered, how do you manage it, if you're in the field, and all of a sudden, oh no, you realise you're on your man-period?"

" _Dean!"_

"Fuck off, bro."

" _Sam!"_

They turned to see their mother giving them the expression they thought of as the Death Ray Stare.

"Any more talk like that from either of you," she said quietly, "Will not be tolerated at my table. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mom," they chorused, because no matter how big her sons grew, they knew better than to cross their mother.

Well, if they didn't, they should have. Really, Dean should have known better.

But when the topic of conversation turned to the modifications being made to his car's cockpit so that he could resume his competitive racing career, it became apparent that he had forgotten.

Being a mechanic by trade himself, John was interested to hear the details of the changes being made to the clutch and brake so that Dean could drive as hard as ever.

"The test runs have gone without a hitch," Dean enthused, "I got my driving leg fine-tuned, it works perfectly..."

"Is that the one that makes you look like a pirate with a peg leg?" interrupted Sam solicitously.

"Shut up, bitch..."

"Dean!"

"Sorry, Mom, anyway, it looks like we're all good to go..."

"All you need is a parrot on your shoulder."

"I said shut it, bitch..."

"Dean!"

"Sorry, Mom, so, I just got one more thing to take care of, and I'm good for next season."

"What's that?" asked John, "Does the clutch need modification? I woulda thought that was the obvious point for any problem to crop up."

"Actually, it's my stump," Dean replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, honey," Mary said with concern, "You need another round of surgery?"

"No, nothing like that," Dean answered. "But I was looking at it the other day, and realised, that there's something that I really should do."

"What?" pressed Sam. "You got scar tissue in the way? I had a really good result with those silicon wrap things."

"Nope," Dean told him.

"What is it, son?" asked John.

Dean took another forkful of turkey, and spoke around it. "I'm gonna get it tattooed so it looks like a dick."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Mary Winchester was in motion.

Anybody who knew the family knew what a strong woman she was.

Of course, when they said that, they usually meant that she was mentally and emotionally strong.

Or maybe they wouldn't have been terribly surprised after all to see her seize her six-foot-one son by the ear, and then frogmarch him to the kitchen, prosthetic leg be damned, where she bent him over the sink and washed his mouth out with soap, whilst her husband and her other son howled with laughter almost loudly enough to drown out Dean's frothy gargling of astonished protest.

Dean couldn't have known that, in a previous life, Mary Winchester had been a Hunter. She had chased down and faced down all manner of supernatural monsters: vampires, werewolves, rugarus, a couple of wendigos, even demons, and she'd slotted every one of them. Even the yellow-eyed bastard who'd killed her parents.

Maybe her father had been right, she mused as she held Dean's head under the tap – she still remembered her Dad's snort of disbelief when she'd said she wanted to get out of the life. "You can take the girl out of the Hunt," he'd growled, "But nothing will take the Hunt out of you."

Yes, family was important, she mused fondly, holding her struggling son pinned to the sink, and she was a woman who knew what it meant to be thankful for it.

It was even more important than good manners.

But maybe only just.

* * *

So, whaddyareckon? Is HELL-TV a goer? Do you have any almost-history prompt you'd like the plot bunnies to tackle? Let me know in the reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Roast Potatoes On The Dining Table Of Life!


	3. The Fashion Channel: 'Pawprints'

One of the Denizens of the Jimiverse wondered how Sam and Dean were chosen by Jimi's successors in the AU!Jimiverse Fashionverse on HELL-TV, in which Sam is an enormously successful fashion designer and his brother the world's most sought after supermodel. In this verse, Jimi was not a half-Hellhound Rottie, but a fully mortal Chihuahua (and therefore not so much Hellhound as most likely actually possessed, which tends to be the case for that breed). I cannot recall who shooed this little plot bunny in my direction, but if that person could identify themself, I would love to give you credit for this FAAAAABULOUS little plot bunny, who dictated this one-shot.

* * *

 **HELL-TV: The Fashion Channel – 'Paw Prints On His Heart'**

"Yoo hoo!" Gabriel called cheerfully before flinging the contents of the bucket out the window to rain down on the upturned faces below. He shut the window, and burst into laughter.

"That is needlessly malicious," commented Castiel.

"Oh, but it's such fun!" Gabriel giggled, "Seriously, it never gets old!"

Castiel sniffed. "What was in it this time?"

"Not much," Gabriel shrugged, "A fish head. Or two. Couple of prawn tails. Maybe a forgotten sushi pack from last week. Don't look at me like that, it won't do any damage!"

"It is no improvement on the bucketful of fingerpaint you used yesterday," stated Castiel.

"Oh, you should've seen the look on the face of that bitchy cow from Vogue," Gabriel crowed in a decidedly evil way, "She looked like a teletubby! A big, dripping, bright blue, outraged teletubby..."

"Gabriel, you really must stop attacking the press pack with noxious fluids," Castiel insisted. "At the very least, some of that camera equipment is very expensive, and there will be law suits seeking damages. This is the United States, after all."

Gabriel's face became a dangerous scowl. "They deserve it," he muttered, "They're just scavengers, a pack of hyenas, waiting out there trying to get a glimpse of the boys to splash their distress all over their trashy rags."

"I will remind you that those 'trashy rags' are a vital component of the fashion industry," Castiel said.

"Fuck 'em," Gabriel sniffed. "They could all evaporate tomorrow, and Sam's brand wouldn't suffer one iota, and you know it."

Castiel sighed; he suspected that his fellow PA was right. Sam Winchester was, after all, the hottest designer in fashion, delivering amazing collections season after season, and with his sinfully gorgeous brother Dean, the world's most feted and sought after male supermodel, to wear his most avant garde creations, old fashioned word of mouth would be enough if the visual media disappeared overnight. "You may be right," he conceded, "But nonetheless, those people are just doing their jobs."

"They don't have to be so callous about it," Gabriel snarled.

That made Castiel smile: Sam Winchester's famously unflappable PA was also famously flippant, but there was a streak of mama bear in Gabriel that could be activated if he thought that Sam or his brother were being threatened. He felt the same way, especially about his own employer, Dean, with whom he was also great friends.

"It is what sells magazines. The whole world knows that Dean is distraught by the death of his beloved pet Jimi – he's been Tweeting pictures of Jimi from puppyhood to advanced age for weeks now – and Sam is distressed for his brother."

"They must be the only two who miss that little bastard," Gabriel observed, "As somebody who has had that evil little critter sikked onto me, I speak from experience. Who woulda thought a Chihuahua could do so much damage? Seriously, that dog was possessed!"

"He was just very protective of Dean," Castiel explained, "And Dean loved him. It is normal and healthy for a person to grieve their loss when Old Father Time catches up with a beloved canine companion."

"Even a possessed Chihuahua?" Gabriel didn't sound convinced. "I swear, that geriatric mutt didn't have any teeth left, but he still managed to draw blood the last time he attacked my ankle."

"To you, he may have been a small yappy dog harbouring a demon," Castiel pointed out, "But to Dean, he was a beloved friend of many years."

"That's easy for you to say," Gabriel sat down heavily. "That evil little ball of malice liked you, if the way he humped your foot every time he saw you was anything to judge by. But how long is this gonna last? I mean, everything's on hold: work on the summer collection has stopped – Sam hasn't touched a sketch pad, let alone been in his workshop. The Spring showing has been put on hiatus indefinitely, all shoots are cancelled until further notice..." He fixed his fellow PA with a serious gaze. "Cassie, Sam has cancelled his appointment with his brow technician twice now, and this time he hasn't even mentioned a rescheduling. This is serious."

"And Dean is way overdue for his manzillian, and shows no sign of wanting an appointment," Castiel confided. "You are correct, the situation is indeed serious."

"Look, don't get me wrong, I know that Dean's distraught, and Sam's upset for him," Gabriel went on, "And we know that he has a talent for melodrama. Especially if it involves his eyeliner. But is it really healthy to wallow in misery like this, even grieving for a pet?"

"I have been considering the matter," Castiel said, "And I believe that a balm for his grief may available."

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."

Castiel outlined his idea.

"A desperate remedy," opined Gabriel, "With absolutely no guarantee it will work."

"This is a desperate situation," Castiel reminded him.

"Yeah, but is it that desperate just yet?"

"I believe it is. You may accompany me, and judge for yourself."

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Sam's heart broke a little for his brother as he heard the muffled sobbing. He knocked softly on the door. "Dean? It's me. Can I come in?"

When the only answer he got was a moan, he decided that was not exactly a no. When Dean had said 'no' two weeks earlier, it had been a very clear 'no', shrieked at top volume and accompanied by a fusillade of foundation compacts and liner tubes. He pushed the door open and went in.

Dean Winchester, the world's hottest male model, lay on the sofa, curled miserably under a blanket covered in dog hair. The forlorn noises suggested that he was hugging a squeaky dog toy under there. Sam moved into the room.

"Hey bro, just dropped in to see how you were doing."

"I'm doing crap," mumbled Dean from under the blanket.

"I brought you some stuff," Sam put the bag and cup down on the table. "Inari sushi, your favourite, and a frappacino, with extra cream and sprinkles and a cherry on top, just how you like it."

"I'm not hungry," Dean moaned. An arm emerged from under the blanket, clutching a spoon, which dug forcefully into the tub of double choc fudge ice-cream on the low table. His complete and utter failure to make some puerile comment about eating a cherry was testament to how low he was feeling.

"Well, I'll just leave 'em here, in case you change your mind later," Sam said, sitting down on a plush chair.

Dean suddenly erupted in fury, sending blanket, blue squeaky pig toy and spoon flying. "Don't sit there!" he yelled, "That's Jimi's chair, don't you _dare_ sit there, that's, that's, it's Jimi's..." With a wail, he burst into fresh gales of sobbing.

"Oh, bro, I'm sorry," Sam said, getting off the chair and sitting on the sofa, pulling his howling brother into a hug. "I didn't mean to, uh, upset Jimi. I know he hated it when anybody sat in his chair."

It was no wonder that the paparazzi were swarming to Winchester Fashions HQ: Dean looked even more attractive than ever when he cried, and pictures of it would enable the photographer to name their price. "I want Oinker Stoinker," he cried, "And I want a clean spoon. And some funnel cake. And some waterproof eyeliner that doesn't make me look like an Egyptian mummy mask. And I want my Jimi, I want my Jimbles, I want my Jiffly-Joo baaaaack..."

"Of course you do," soothed Sam, reaching down to pick up Oinker Stoinker, the blue squeaky pig toy that the angry little Chihuahua had preferred above all other playthings, sometimes even more than the ankles of unwary journalists, makeup artists, other designers or self-styled celebrities. "He was your little buddy, your constant companion, and now he's not here, you miss him terribly. It's okay to be sad about it, Dean. I'm just... I'm worried about you, bro."

Dean took a deep shuddering breath, and visibly collected himself. "It's okay, Sam," he said, with a brave wobbly little smile that would have the media pack outside willing to claw each other to pieces to get a shot of it, "If I use a really fine brush, I can get a pretty good result with that new liner from the UK, it's not perfect, but it'll do..."

"That's good to hear," Sam smiled back, "And you know, it might also help if you could, you know, maybe do something, get up, move around a bit – hey, you could go and help Gabriel brew up his next bucket of yuck, he's been having a lot of fun throwing it over the paps outside..."

"I can't," Dean said quietly. "I can't. Do anything. Jimi was more than a pet, he was my wingman, he was my guardian, he was... he was my muse, Sam. My chakras will never align properly again. My chi will be permanently blocked. The feng shui in this place is ruined for good. My kundalini is stone dead, forever."

There was a discreet tap at the door. "Dean?"

"Hey, Cas," Dean sniffled an acknowledgement.

"I have brought you the funnel cake you texted me for," his PA proffered the greasy bag. "And I also took the liberty of procuring some caramel sauce."

"Thanks, Cas." Dean took the bag.

"I am somewhat concerned for your health," Castiel added, "Your body's astonishing ability to remain aesthetically pleasing despite your fondness for desserts notwithstanding, a constant intake of refined carbohydrate and saturated fat will render you unhealthy."

"It doesn't matter," Dean said through a mouthful of funnel cake. "My career is over. Without Jimi at my side, I can never work again."

"I am sorry to hear that," Castiel commented mildly, "And I hope that you are feeling better soon. You know where to contact me, should you require delivery of further foodstuffs." He withdrew discreetly.

Dean watched him go. "Now, that," he stated, "That is what makes Cas such a great guy. He's not tryin' to wheedle me into doin' anything, he's just leaving me to make up my own mind about things. No wonder Jimi loved him." Tears welled up in his eyes again. "I remember the time I dropped a piece of this stuff into Donatella's handbag, and Jimbles tore it to pieces like it was a rat, and then he bit Lagerfeld's ankles until his dark glasses fell off, and he grabbed 'em and ran under that sideboard..."

Outside the door, Castiel spoke quietly to Gabriel. "I think you see the situation."

"You weren't kidding," Gabriel whispered back, "Okay, then, so Operation Cheer-Up better commence toute suite, in fact, the tooter, the sweeter."

"To that end, I have begun pressing some enquiries, and believe I may have identified a couple of potential candidates..."

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Later that day, Sam retreated to his workshop and tried to do some work: first of all he made an honest effort to attack the backlog of emails he'd accrued, but the increasingly whiny pleas from a non-specific Kardashian to design a dress for her next divorce just made him want to put a fist through the screen (he spent a few minutes producing a gif of a cheerful little demon in a fluffy hat dancing in a frozen-over Hell, and sent her that by way of reply). He picked up his tablet and stylus to do some sketching, but inspiration eluded him. He draped a piece of fabric over a mannequin several different ways before throwing it across the room in a fit of pique, giving it one of the infamously epic bitchfaces that could reduce hardened fashion commentators to tears. His brother's misery permeated the place. There was no way that he could wield the provocative creativity that was the hallmark of his designing when half his mind was occupied with concern for his brother.

And, if he was honest, he missed Jimi too. The angry little ball of fur and teeth had taken a liking to Sam from the day Dean brought him home as a tiny puppy, and he'd been around for so long that he left an absence that Sam couldn't help but feel too.

With a sigh, he put down his pin cushion, and decided to head for the kitchen to see if there was any sushi left, or whether Gabriel had used it all in brewing up his yuck juice to throw at lurking photographers outside.

The place was largely deserted, the various stylists, assistants, gofers and other assorted staff required for the running of a large design house had been sent home, since with Sam not designing and Dean not modelling, there really wasn't much to do. He was just peering through the contents of the fridge, and wondering whether taking the can of whipped cream to Dean might help, when his PA came barging into the room and shoved past him.

"What the... Gabriel, what the hell are you doing?"

"Sorry, Sam," Gabriel snatched a bowl from the sink and filled it with water, "Mission of mercy." Holding the bowl carefully, he left as fast as he could without spilling it.

Curious, Sam followed him.

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Dean was scrolling through his phone looking for another picture of Jimi to tweet when suddenly the blanket under which he was huddled was whisked away.

"Hey!" he yapped irritably, looking up to see that it was his PA who had done it. "Cas, what the fuck?"

"Somebody needs this more than you," Castiel replied shortly, bundling the blanket up and turning to leave.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" yelped Dean, sitting up, "Who? Hey, that's Jimi's blanket! It's Jimi's, you hear me? Cas, you bring that back right now!"

Without another word, his PA was gone.

Still complaining stridently, Dean followed.

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Dean was still screaming blue murder about Castiel having stolen Jimi's blanket when he finally caught up.

Castiel was in one of the lounges, sitting on a long sofa, the bundle of blanket in his lap, with Gabriel sitting on one side of him and Sam on the other. He offered them one of his most magnificently manly smouldering scowls.

"Give me that," he snarled, reaching from the blanket, "That's not yours, it's Jimi's, it's..."

He snatched his hand back as the blanket squeaked.

"It's okay, bro," Sam offered his brother a dimpled smile, "They'll just need to borrow it for a little while."

"Indeed," Castiel added, "I believe that they are more comfortable now." With that, he peeled back a corner of the blanket.

Two fluffy little faces peered out curiously at Dean.

He dropped to his knees, mouth agape. "What... Cas, where... I mean, how..."

"They were outside," Castiel explained. "Gabriel found them."

"When I went downstairs," Gabriel added, "To fetch my bucket. I dropped it after my last bombing raid," he elaborated, "But don't worry, I'm pretty sure that asshole from Harpers has a solid skull, it won't have done too much damage..."

"I believe them to be Pekinese, no more than few months old," Castiel went on, "Ready to leave their mother. Unfortunately, they are imperfect examples of their breed."

Dean looked up at him. "Imperfect?" He looked back down to the little faces; one of them stretched towards him, little snub nose twitching, and looked up at him with dark eyes. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You will notice the size disparity," Castiel continued, "The one who is sniffing at you is overly large, and will quite probably grow into an oversized specimen of his breed, and his ears are too big for the rest of him. The other is most likely the runt of his litter..."

"Hey, who are you calling a runt?" Sam interrupted, reaching down to pet the tiny face that was staring at him fearlessly.

"It is unimportant," Castiel told the brothers, "These puppies are less distressed now. I will take them to an animal shelter..."

"Waitwaitwait," Dean cut in, "You can't bring these little guys in here and then just, just, just go dump 'em!"

"I will not be just 'dumping' them," Castiel frowned, "They will be humanely housed and adequately fed."

"But... they're puppies!" Dean insisted, "They don't wanna be 'humanely housed' and 'adequately fed', they wanna find a proper home!"

"Chances are, they will be adopted," Castiel shrugged. "Adoption rates for puppies are higher than the average for rehoming abandoned animals."

"But..." Dean reached out to the larger of the fluffy little heads. With a determined effort, the puppy wiggled out of the folds of the blanket, and stood on Castiel's leg.

He looked up at Dean, yipped, and wagged his tail.

For the first time in a number of weeks, Dean smiled.

"Maybe they don't have to go straight to a shelter," suggested Gabriel, "Perhaps we could, you know, just babysit 'em for a day or two, put the word out on social media that they need homes. Little cuties like this, they'll be snapped up before you know it."

"That is a good idea, Gabriel," agreed Castiel, "Dean, perhaps you could take some photos of them, and post them next time you are online?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, sure," muttered Dean, his attention completely on the small fluffy object before him. "I'll just, uh, I'll just, yeah." Reaching out, he carefully extracted the larger puppy from the blanket. The little dog immediately went into a wiggling frenzy of tail wagging and excited yipping, trying to climb the front of Dean's shirt to kiss his chin.

Dean gazed down at him with the smile that had sold thousands of garments, millions of magazines, and once actually broken the entire internet.

"Very well," Castiel noted, "I shall see to the care of..."

The smaller puppy yapped irritably at him, squirmed out of his grasp and went bounding towards Sam, where he gazed upwards and huffed his demand to be picked up.

"Don't look at me," Sam told the pup sternly, "I gotta try to get some work done, and I can't do that if I have a little furball getting in the way, shedding on my fabric, so you can..."

The sentence finished on a surprise squawk as the tiny animal suddenly launched himself at Sam, who reached out to catch him like a museum curator who has returned to the restoration workshop to find the philistines from the entomology collection playing touch football with one of his Fabergé eggs.

"What the fuck?" he yelped, "What the fuck are you doing? I could've dropped you! You could get hurt!"

With complete lack of concern the puppy whuffed happily, and snuggled into the crook of his arm.

Gabriel managed to keep the great big shit-eating grin from spreading across his face as he watched Sam's resistance melt faster than an ageing B-lister's face under a tanning bed lamp.

"If you two could provide me with some photos, I shall see that they are posted to the website immediately," Castiel announced.

"Uh, sure, Cas, sure," Dean muttered distractedly, still smiling down at the wiggling pup.

"Yeah," Sam echoed faintly, scratching his own fluffy assailant behind the ears, "I'll, uh, look, I'll take this little guy with me, I'll be in my workshop..."

The PAs watched the Winchesters depart.

"Well, that was unexpected," commented Castiel.

"What?" prompted Gabriel.

"I was hoping that one of the puppies would choose Dean, but I was not expecting one to adopt Sam," Castiel replied. "I shall contact the breeder, and inform her that we would like to purchase both of them."

"That was a hell of a gamble," Gabriel noted, "Dogs aren't just like defective laptops, or something – when one stops working, you can't just replace it, and expect the new one to work exactly like the one before."

"Of course not," scoffed Castiel. "You cannot 'replace' a pet you have loved and lost. But I hope that a fresh set of paw prints on his heart will remind Dean why the older ones gave him such joy in the first place."

"Nice," mused Gabriel, "You should write that on a card. You could moonlight for Hallmark. So, now I guess we wait to see if..."

Their conversation was interrupted by Castiel's cell.

"Where's my jacket?" Dean's voice began without preamble. "Caaaaas, where's my jacket?"

"You have several jackets, Dean," his PA pointed out mildly.

"The black one!" Dean yapped, "With the croc skin panelling! And that bag, you know, the one with the wide strap and the piping crap on it?"

"The Dolce & Gabbana, or the Hermes?"

"I dunno!"

"The one you said you didn't like because the colour clashed with your eyes, or the one you said you didn't like because the feng shui was, I believe the expression you used was 'totally fucked'?"

"Yeah, that one, I got more important things to worry about than feng shui right now, Cas, can you dig it out?"

"Of course, Dean."

"Oh, and make me an appointment with Stefan, I can't think straight if I'm walking around like an Amazonian Rainforest below the equator."

"I shall do that right away, Dean."

"And get me a frappacino, this one's melted."

"I will, Dean."

"And while you're at it, get one of those pupacinos, too, I think they make 'em with lactose-free dog-safe milk, and doggry-friendly carob sprinkles, or something."

"Yes, Dean."

"I can't find my foundation!"

"It could have been amongst the items you flung at your brother a number of weeks ago, perhaps if you look under the furniture?"

"Oh, God, I look like I've been punched in the face and dragged backwards through a Goodwill store, I can't go out like this! Fuck, I gotta exfoliate! Hey, Cas, can you come in and watch Lemmy while I take a shower?"

"Lemmy?"

"Yeah, he seems to be pretty happy just sittin' there chewin' on Oinker Stoinker, but I don't want him running riot while nobody's watchin' him..."

"I will be right there, Dean." Castiel cut the call. "I believe I am back on duty."

"Me too, I'd say," Gabriel scrolled down on his own phone, "If this shopping list I've just been given is anything to go by. Puppy food, puppy bed, puppy pen, puppy toys, puppy harness, books on puppy training, books on the Pekinese breed, book vet appointment, book dog psychologist consultation, enrolment in puppy school, book session with dog trainer..."

Castiel's phone buzzed again. "Hey, Cas, call Melanie for me, will ya? We gotta get this little guy's colours done."

"I will arrange it at once, Dean."

"For now, we'll just have to work with what's available, but I think we can do better."

"Very well, Dean."

"Oh, hey, while you're watchin' Lemmy, can you see if you can find my liner brush kit?"

"Of course, Dean."

"Thanks Cas, you're totally the best Man Thursday a guy could have!"

"The worst bit of this," Gabriel frowned at his phone, "Is that with this list to deal with, I won't even have time to brew up one more bucket of yuck to throw at the vultures out there."

"For which they should be eternally grateful," Castiel reprimanded him, tapping at his phone to find a place that did pupacino drinks.

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The media pack outside Winchester Fashions HQ had only just finished cleaning fish guts off their equipment when, completely unexpected, Dean Winchester, supermodel and Cosmopolitan's Sexiest Man Alive for four years running, stepped out of the building, in all his smouldering, come-hither, I'm Too Sexy For This Planet glory.

Their immediate impulse was to rush towards him like moths to a flame, but the first photographer who got close fell back, screaming, and staring in disbelief at the neat row of bleeding puncture marks on his hand.

"Puppy teeth," Dean gave the pack a megawatt Killer Smile, then beamed dotingly at the growling, snarling little face peeking out of the shoulder tote he was carrying, "They're sharp as hell, aint they?"

They peppered him with rapid-fire questions as he sauntered to his beloved muscle car and carefully put the puppy on the front seat, but he ignored them all; they had to wait until he started Tweeting about his new best buddy. The foolhardy few who were silly enough to follow him to the upmarket pet store found out that Lemmy the Pekinese already had the ankle-mauling and shoe-peeing instincts of his predecessor.

Sam's cell started buzzing ceaselessly, but he usually ignored it in his workshop; intent on his sketching, then his experimentation with two new fabrics he'd commissioned, he didn't even answer it when Gabriel called, he was too busy with the little animal, who was shamelessly soliciting attention, and started to yap irritably every time the petting slowed. The fall and volume of the puppy's coat fascinated him, and he found himself wondering if he could recreate that sense of weightless size in textile form using material of completely animal-free origin...

It became clear to the world at large that Lars had adopted Sam when Gabriel Tweeted a picture of the pup snoozing adorably on the floor of Sam's workshop in a nest he'd made himself by shredding a Dior garment and a pair of Manolos.

On the down side, with business back in full swing, Gabriel found that he missed having an excuse to fling foetid fluid over the media pack.

But on the upside, there were now two unspeakably adorable and entirely savage little dogs who would go the calf-shredding on anybody they decided was upsetting their humans.

All in all, Gabriel decided, that was at least as much fun.

* * *

Now, all together, one two three... awwwwwwwwwww.

Send reviews, and any further proto-bunnies, because Reviews Are The Funnel Cake And Frappacinos On The Sofa Of Life!*

*Without The Dog Hair Of Bitter Reality.


	4. The Infernal Channel: 'Getting Along'

**HELL-TV: The Infernal Channel - 'Getting Along'**

* * *

"Oof!"

It was only Dean's finely honed reflexes that allowed him to twist and break the fall; the power behind the blow that had felled him would have sent just about anybody else face first into the stone with a sickening splat. He wasn't sure if that had been the aim, or if the actual intent had just been to try to put a fist right through his face.

The cluster of demons watching warily murmured amongst themselves.

He climbed to his feet, and wiped a hand across his mouth. It came away bloody. That made him smile.

"Say what they will about you," he drawled cockily, his sweeping gesture taking in the demonic audience, "And they do say, I can tell you – never within your hearing, obviously, because they might be morons but they aint suicidal – but you never disappoint."

His assailant smiled with apparently genuine humour, as if this was some private joke between them that just never got old. That expression alone was enough to make some of the demons step back.

It made Dean laugh out loud with glee.

He got in the next blow, a savage uppercut that rocked his opponent's head back with an audible snap, but just provoked a snarling laugh, the meaning of which was clear. _Is that all you got today?_

Dean grinned cheekily. A couple of female demons swooned.

"Oh, feelin' cocky today, are we?" he asked provocatively.

The scarred face opposite bared its yellowed fangs – then poked out its tongue.

Dean whooped with laughter.

"Okay, smartass," he taunted, "Money where your mouth is time. Wanna see my new toy?"

He drew his weapon, a strange-looking knife apparently made from bone, an animal's jaw with the teeth still visible. The demons watching gasped, and shrank back in fear.

A few steps away, a heavily muscled arm extended, and offered him an obscene gesture. Then long, wicked-looking claws extruded from the fingertips, and beckoned to him. The speech that rumbled out of the scarred face was not easily understandable, as if the speaker did not bother with human language very often.

"Come at me, bro."

"All right!" Dean crowed, "I'm gonna have me some fun!"

He attacked.

The group of Hellhounds lounged comfortably together in the most terrifying puppy pile imaginable watched calmly. Ordinarily any threat to their handler would provoke them to instant and savage bloodlust, ready to tear any threat to their pack leader to shrieking bloodied shreds.

But really, the Rackmaster and the Lady of the Hounds had tried to kill each other so often that they regarded him as practically family, which made their little sparring rounds pack business, and so interference was not appropriate and they went back to their snoozing instead.

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The fabric of Hell had never been more stable since the Boy King, Samuel, Lord of Hell and Ruler of Dis had claimed the Red Throne.

(Not that he ever actually _sat_ on the Red Throne: the first time he'd tried it, he'd declared it ridiculously pompous and hideously uncomfortable, claiming that the mere ten minutes he'd sat there left him with a bad case of numb backside. (The young female demon who'd offered to massage His Majesty's ass until it felt better had disappeared in a little puff of ash.). The incredibly intricate piece of furniture sat off to one side of the Throne Room, which Lord Samuel had renamed The Unattractive Office. From time to time, The Rackmaster, brother and self-proclaimed bodyguard to His Majesty, would slouch on it, using the feared demon-killing knife he habitually had about his person to clean his nails, just to watch demons' faces turn pale. Well, when he wasn't boinging around on the bouncy castle that His Majesty had installed just because it made his big brother so happy.)

Stability in Hell was important: stability represented continuity and efficiency, which let the denizens of Hell get on with what they most like to do, that is, scheming and plotting and undermining and backstabbing and debauchery and indulging in the Seven Deadly Sins – most importantly, it kept them contained and stopped them from bothering the living. It took a lot of power and effort to keep the unworldly realm running in such an insular anti-entropic fashion. It was a measure of just how good Sam was at his job that very few individuals realised exactly how much work and power it took.

Of course, sometimes it felt like it was more work than it really needed to be...

"And I'm running out of ideas," he confided to the laptop, "I mean, I'm the Lord of Hell, for fuck's sake, I can demand the obedience of everyone down here, but..."

"Well, except with your Dad, Dean never exactly did 'obedience' at the best of times," Bobby Singer's amused expression peered out of the screen, "And your Hellhound Whisperer, well, followin' rules wasn't exactly her strong suit when she was alive, so I don't know why you'd think she'd start now."

"I don't want to be the Fun Police," Sam said, "I'm not telling them they have to be best buddies 24/7, but if they could just work together with less friction..."

Bobby's expression was hard. "Ronnie Shepherd's last act on earth was to attempt sexual assault on your brother; once you pulled your little coup Hellside, he put her pitch-black soul on the rack, and turned her into an infernal version of her mortal self, which was one of the most vicious and evil selves ever to walk God's green earth," he stated bluntly. "Neither of 'em will ever forget any of that."

"I know. But I think they could find common ground, if they would just stop trying to kill each other. I mean, they both love slaughtering demons, they both enjoy punishing the wicked..."

Bobby gave him a long look. "You know, it might actually be a blessing in disguise, after the last time they actually tried to run the script of their very own buddy movie."

Sam groaned. "Oh, God, don't remind me. What I mean is, it would make my job easier if they would not be so disruptive!"

Bobby gave him a look that was part sadness, part compassion, and part I-Told-You-So. "Son, you are head honcho of Hell. You're a smart cookie; if you didn't figure out that the job was goin' to be a headache before you decided you wanted it..."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed. "Road to Hell, paved, yada yada yada. I don't think they mean to cause trouble, it's just..."

"One's the gas, and one's the match," Bobby finished the sentence. There was a long silence. "Sam, if you're havin' any regrets about the choice you made..."

"No," Sam said firmly. "Absolutely not. Bobby, I know you're not happy about it, but this... it's what I was destined to do. And I do it well. And Dean is essential to it. He's got my back. And... he's happy, Bobby, I don't know exactly how or when it happened, but he's happy doing what he's doing. And, somehow, so is Ronnie. Whatever burdened him, whatever damaged her, now they're here, they're... free of that. I think maybe they were born for these roles, too."

The sadness on the old man's face was unmissable. "You are doin' a good job," Bobby confided, "Word is, the number of demonic incidents up here has dwindled away to practically nothin'. And angry spirits are gettin' fewer and further between."

Sam offered the boyish dimpled smile that could be at once endearing and utterly terrifying. "Told you, they're both good at what they do. When they're not driving me utterly crazy." His expression turned pleading. "So, I don't suppose you have any ideas?"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "Actually, since you ask, there was one that I used on you and your brother when you were kids, do you remember..."

Sam listened, and then smiled.

"Yeah, I do. And I hated you for it, at the time."

"Did the job, though," Bobby grinned in fond memory.

"Yeah, it did. Okay, thanks, Bobby. It's worth a try."

"You look after yourself, Your Majesty. And look after your brother, ya idjit."

Sam closed the window of Snype, the newly developed communications software he'd started using in his regular chats with the man who had been practically his father when he had been fully human, and looked around. He smiled at a few of the milling Hierarchy (the ancient demonic noble families of Hell) just to make them nervous. "You there, Ganthery," he addressed the fattest demon that Hell had ever produced, "Did you see where my brother went?"

The old demon's expression was eloquent: it very clearly said _I don't want to answer that question because I'm pretty sure it will make you angry, and I don't like you when you Hulk out, not that I like you anyway you jumped-up young whippersnapper to whom I have to defer lest I be turned into an interesting little smear on the floor._

"Er, I believe the Rackmaster left half an hour ago, Your Majesty," Duke Ganthery replied carefully as his retainers, lackeys and other hangers-on edged carefully away from him.

Sam sighed, and his face formed into one of the bitchfaces that would make even an Archduke of Hell quail, when a well-dressed figure came hurrying towards him just as he was about to send his thoughts outward to locate his brother. "Hey, Crowley," he greeted the new arrival, "Where's the fire?"

"Third Circle, since you ask," replied His Majesty's trusted lieutenant, "They're at it again."

"What?" Sam looked bemused. "Again? Those two idiots are trying to break each other's faces _again_?"

"Uh, I believe it's gone beyond just fists," Crowley said, raising his hands and miming a Hunter's knife and a werewolf's claws in action. "You know how they can be, stabby stabby, shreddy shreddy, they are simple creatures who enjoy simple amusements. They have a lot more in common than either of them would care to admit, you know."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, apparently make an effort to control his temper. Then he saw the expression on Crowley's face. "What?"

"Er, well, the thing is, I am given to understand that your brother has... acquired a new weapon."

"What sort of a weapon?" Sam ground out.

"Well, I had a message from Cain," Crowley went on, "Seems that Winchester the Elder has been keeping his hand in at houebreaking, and..."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam. "Can he wield it without the Mark, though?"

Crowley shrugged. "I asked Cain – the short answer was 'I don't know'. The slightly longer answer was 'Dean is Rackmaster, and brother to the Lord of Hell – the Mark is largely a state of mind, so who knows, because Winchesters don't exactly do rules very well'."

"And he's decided to find out by trying to stick it in my Dominicana," Sam griped. "Great."

"Just between you and me, I don't think they'd _really_ kill each other," Crowley confided. "Not very much. Oh, he sent some honey."

"What?"

"Cain. He sent some honey. Totally organic. From free-range bees. They're very happy bees. And some beeswax. It makes the most wonderful candles, next time you're doing a formal ritual, you can't beat 'em, they give such a lovely clear and steady light, I'd say they're almost better than setting an arsonist on fire. He won't really stab her like he means it. Maybe only once or twice. Three times, tops."

"That's not a chance I can take," Sam growled, "God, sometimes they just drive me nuts!"

"Family," Crowley commiserated gloomily. "Can't live with 'em, can't just cut their throats and walk away. Well, obviously, I did, but I'm one of the lucky few."

"Yeah, but your mother was a total cow," Sam sighed, "These two I think are just, well, idiots, I guess." He stood, diabolical power crackling around him. "There are times when I just want to bang their heads together."

"You do know that if you do that, they'll turn around and double team you?" Crowley grinned.

"I didn't say I would do that," Sam clarified, "I could do worse. I could see 'em both living on nothing but tofu and celery for a week."

The demons gasped in horror, and fell back before the wrath of the Lord of Hell, terrifying in his power, and totally a vicious bitch when it came to dealing out penances for displeasing him.

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Sam arrived at the Third Circle of Hell unnoticed. He contrived it that way, but as it turned out he needn't have bothered; everybody was far too busy watching the entertainment being provided by the fight.

As he stepped from the shadows, Orgle, one of Hell's fiends, came hurrying up to him, all his mouths set in expressions of worry.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Your Majesty!" the fiend began, wringing several of his huge paws in despair, "I told them you wouldn't be happy, but you know what they can be like, The Rackmaster does like to tease Her Ladyship, and I tell her just to ignore him, but they won't listen to me..."

Sam reached up to clap the worried fiend on the shoulder that looked least sticky. "Don't sweat it, Orgle," he said, "It isn't your job to save these two morons from each other. I'll deal with this."

"Thank you, Your Kingness," Orgle bowed. "I might just go and get the mop and bucket, though, they have made a bit of a mess, and WHS regs are very clear on the requirements for dealing with a biological spill..."

"Good man." Leaving the conscientious fiend, he followed the noise.

The two antagonists weren't at all hard to find: the crowd of demons clustered around them like the cheering audience of a wrestling match were a bit of a giveaway. He didn't need to use his height – wherever he was in his realm, the Lord of Hell could see all.

His first thought was, strangely, one of relief: the Dominicana, handler of Hell's infernal pack of Hellhounds, had been a Hunter and a werewolf in life, though she rarely remembered that she'd even been a human at all – if she'd really intended to go in for the kill, she would have shapeshifted completely to her wolf form, which was even bigger and nastier. As it was, the only features of her bestial nature apparent were the razor claws tipping her hand-paws. And, of course, the long yellowed canine fangs that were a permanent feature of her face, but Sam was quite confident that she wouldn't try to bite Dean. (She had said as much herself, once, when she was feeling more articulate than usual – the implication was that she'd sooner gargle rotting demon entrails than have the taste of Dean Winchester in her mouth.)

Both of them were bleeding from several wounds: the Lady of the Hounds had a gash along the side of her neck where a blow had almost cut her throat, and Dean's shirt was torn and soaked where a disembowelling strike had almost found its target. They circled, feinted, grinning as they watched each other for the smallest mistake that would allow the other an opening...

It happened almost too fast to see: one moment they were poised, the next, they were springing towards each other, knife and claws at the ready, grappling and turning...

A roaring cheer went up from the demon audience: Dean had the Dominicana pinned from behind, the First Blade against her throat.

"That's enough."

It was spoken softly, almost as a whisper, but the Lord of Hell's pique made the foundations of Perdition shake. The demons shrieked in fear, falling back and melting away before the Boy King.

Wearing a terrifying bitchface, Sam strode towards the combatants, who had not moved.

"I won, bro!" Dean grinned, pressing the knife slightly to draw a bead of blood, "Look, I won!"

"I'm not completely sure about that," commented Sam, his eyes travelling downward.

Dean's triumphant grin wavered somewhat as he felt a set of very sharp werewolf claws tapping gently against his groin.

"I'd call it more of a stalemate," Sam shrugged, "Unless you want to spend the rest of whatever turns out to be your life singing soprano."

"Ah, shit," Dean grumbled, pushing his opponent away roughly. She simply turned, and smiled at him. "I coulda killed you."

"You would die," the reply was calm and certain.

"Not if I kill you first," he said as cheerfully and annoyingly as he knew how.

The beaming smile turned on him managed to be entirely malevolent as she whuffed almost gently under her breath; instantly, the pack of Hellhounds were on their feet, eyes glowing red, as they growled and slavered, ready to hunt and kill.

"I am the Dominicana," she growled, "The Lady of the Hounds, Alpha of the Infernal Pack, and if I fall, my pack will take your heart."

"They can have it, I don't need it," Dean replied breezily. "You know, I aint sure if I even can die, as such," he mused philosophically, "I mean, I'm the Rackmaster, and I'm related to the King of Hell, that has to count for something."

She sauntered towards him, heedless of the knife he still held. "Oh, but think of the fun we could have finding out," she practically purred.

"That's enough!" Sam snapped, "Fuck, how old are you two morons?"

"It's kinda hard to say," Dean pointed out, "What with the time difference thing Down Here – all that matters is I'm gonna be awesomely handsome for more years Topside than ever!" He flipped the knife thoughtfully. "We could go Topside, and see if you're any easier to kill up there."

"I _said_ , that's enough," Sam said quietly and firmly – the reasonable tenor of his voice only made it more menacing. "Dean, where did you get that?"

"Found it," Dean muttered, staring at his feet.

" _Where_ did you find it?" pressed Sam.

"Oh, just, you know," Dean waved the jawbone knife vaguely. "Around."

"Around, as in, 'Around Cain's place when I broke in'?"

"Well, he wasn't using it!" Dean pouted.

"That's not the point!" snapped Sam. "You will take it back immediately."

"I will," Dean smiled breezily, "I'll take it Topside right away. And take it back. As soon as I've taken it for a test drive. She can come with me," he jerked a thumb at the Lady of the Hounds. "We can do some team-building, that'll make you happy, won't it?"

Sam scowled. "The last time you two went Topside for alleged 'team-building', I had to ask Cas for help to remediate the damage."

"You were the one who sent us out on a bonding exercise," Dean complained.

"You told us to go and be friends," the Dominicana added.

"Yes, I did," Sam agreed. "What I had in mind was maybe some fun activities together, you know, drinking, bowling, movies, overeating, skeeball, even."

"We did!" The pout on the scarred half-werewolf face looked almost comical. "We did all that! We obeyed your command!"

"Road trip, bro," confirmed Dean, "Real old school team-building exercise. And if I'm honest, well, yeah, we did kinda have fun, didn't we?"

They exchanged smiles that were oddly fond.

"Well, your 'team-building exercise' nearly destroyed Las Vegas!" snapped Sam. "You were supposed to discover things you had in common, not discover you could function as an army of two! Oh, for fuck's sake, look, Dean, Ronnie, I've explained this to you before, Hell runs on stability..."

As he lectured them he didn't miss the sly look that passed between the two culprits: his brother, and his most loyal and obedient servant. Both of them would spring into bloody action without hesitation at the merest hint of any threat to the Boy King, and had done so on several occasions. He couldn't stay angry at them, and they knew it.

"So, in future, I would appreciate it if you would focus your undoubted talents and abilities on the greater work here, rather than each other," he concluded his lecture. To their credit, they looked at him with expressions suggesting that they were doing their best to pretend to pay attention. "It's important that we all work on the same side, Team Hell."

"Sound like you've drunk the corporate Kool-Aid there, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Want us to do some brain-storming? Blue-sky thinking outside the box? Run it up the flagpole and see who shoots it?"

"Not exactly," Sam clarified, "But I do want you to work together. So..."

He brandished an oddly shaped piece of fabric.

"What the fuck is that?" asked Dean. "It looks like a tent with holes in it..."

Before he could finish his latest smartass comment, Sam threw it over both of them.

Once it was in place and they realised what it was, they both let out barks of outrage, pawing ineffectively at the oversized garment.

"Sam! What the hell is this supposed to be?"

"There," the Boy King smiled his most terrifying boyish smile, "It's your Get-Along Shirt. And you are going to wear it until you convince me that you are capable of getting along. Don't waste your time," he allowed himself a grin as they discovered that the offending material was resistant to werewolf claws and the First Blade, "You can't shred it. All you have to do is, well, get along."

The smouldering snarl that Dean offered his brother might've terrified male demons and made female ones swoon, but Sam was utterly unmoved. "You don't have to like it, you just have to do it. And the first thing you can do together," he added with a pointed stare, "Is take that back to Cain."

"But I want iiiiiit," Dean practically whined.

"I don't care," Sam gave him a humourless smile, "I trust him to keep it safe, so you will do it. And you, madam, will help him. While you practise getting along."

"But I can't drive my Baby like this!" Dean protested.

"I know for a fact you can drive it with a drink in one hand," Sam shot back in a disapproving tone, "So I can't see this slowing you down that much."

"Let me drive," growled Ronnie. Dean grumbled vowellessly as she unfurled her wings, roiling shadows of twisting smoke. As she took flight, the Infernal pack roused, and followed.

Letting out a sigh, Sam headed back to the Unattractive Office. Cain had indeed sent him some honey. He put a spoonful of it in a mug of camomile tea that he hoped would soothe his headache.

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Sam had been back at work for at least an hour when Crowley came to see him again. The demon's expression made him sigh. "What is it?"

"It's your brother and your dog handler," Crowley began in a resigned tone. "I'm afraid they're still Topside, and..."

"And what?"

"Well, they're... getting along."

"Oh, God... how exactly are they 'getting along'?"

"Well, according to the latest intel, they've gone joyriding."

"Joyriding? Those two idiots have stolen a car?"

"Actually, they've stolen a boat. Decided to do a bit of fishing, apparently. Stole some tackle, and then a boat."

"A boat?"

"Yes, a boat."

"What kind of boat?"

"Well, probably not exactly a boat, more of a ..."

Sam's cell chirped; it was a message from Dean.

Well, there wasn't actually any message, there was just a photo. Of Dean. And Ronnie. Both beaming into the camera.

Dean was wearing a seaman's peaked hat; judging by the amount of braid on it, it had been purloined from a very senior officer indeed.

Ronnie was wearing a sailor's Dixie cup cap, and a bright orange life preserver over one shoulder, the stencilled name of the vessel clearly showing, and was giving a cheerful thumbs up.

" _WHAT THE FUCK?"_

"I believe they may have encouraged the Hellhounds to cause a... distraction whilst they perpetrated the theft. They probably can't do _too_ much damage, the Atlantic Ocean is a large body of water, and so long as they don't encounter any unwary whales or lost North Koreans..."

Letting out a yowl of resigned outrage, Sam huffed mightily, pulled the mother of all bitchfaces, and dialled a number on his cell.

"Hi, Cas, uh, look, I hate to drop this on you with no notice, but I really need some help right now... yeah, it's Dean. Yeah, and Ronnie. They've stolen a...oh, you know about it already, huh? Well, that makes sense. So I guess the most important thing right now is that we reel them in... yeah... yeah... great, okay, I'll meet you in ten minutes. Thanks, Cas, I owe you one. Again."

He cut the call, then checked his watch, grateful that his opposite number, whom Dean referred to as Sheriff of Heaven, was able to comprehend that, all things considered, they were both ultimately working for the same company.

Maybe Bobby was right: Dean and Ronnie loving to hate each other was a headache, but when they teamed up, all Hell broke loose, so to speak. If anybody ever tried to start up the Apocalypse again they would shut it down before it ever got started. But in the meantime...

With a sigh, he left some tasks delegated to Crowley, then went to join Castiel to bring the culprits' joyride on the _USS Gerald R. Ford_ to an end.


	5. The Faculty Channel: 'Collaboration'

The plot bunnies are out of season Down Here, I'm afraid, but this little sod jumped out of a text book - not completely unconnected, given what he dictated. These alternative realities are just plain weird, if you ask me.

* * *

 **HELL-TV: The Faculty Channel – 'Collaboration'**

When Sam showed up, Dean wasn't in a mood for niceties. "You're late, bitch."

"Students," Sam said by way of explanation, knowing that it could hardly be a surprise for his brother: it was usual for one of the Law faculty's most popular and sought after professors to be waylaid by his undergraduates on his way to lunch, when he usually met up with his brother at the campus eatery that was about halfway between the Law and Engineering faculties.

"Don't they get enough of your time in lectures and seminars?" complained Dean.

"It's important," Sam protested as he always did, "Especially their first year in, it can be a bit of a culture shock, and it's vital that they get with the program as soon as possible – they lose their confidence at that level, they'll never get it back. You know that, jerk."

"You'll spoil 'em," Dean warned through a mouth of hamburger, "You make yourself available for these improv tutorials, they'll expect it every time. Nobody's gonna be there to help 'em out once they fly the nest. Hang on, do baby sharks 'fly the nest'? Maybe weasels. Nobody's gonna be there to hold their hands once your baby weasels graduate and, uh, scurry the nest..."

"Right, says the guy who literally, actually, re-wrote the text book, because his students said they had trouble understanding the one that was prescribed," Sam rolled his eyes, "The guy who runs before- and after-hours study groups for anybody who's struggling in his courses, or anyone else's. Shouldn't you just let nature take its course? Anybody who's finding it tough going just isn't cut out for a career in engineering?"

"It's totally different," Dean waved his burger expressively, "They've gotta get through all that compulsory undergrad crap so they can get to the interestin' stuff."

"Right, totally different," humphed Sam. "What's got you so grumpy?"

"I'm not grumpy!" grumped Dean.

"You are, you know."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"Not!"

"Are."

"Not!"

"Are. Either you've got your man-period, or a meeting this afternoon."

"Fuck, don't remind me," Dean growled. "Well, at least it will let me find out who parked in Baby's spot."

"What?"

"Some asshole parked in my Baby's spot!" Dean repeated. "I got here this morning, and some asshole was in my Baby's space!"

 _Ah,_ thought Sam, _That explains the grump_. "Dean, there is no designated parking," Sam reminded him, "Not unless you want to go from being _a_ Dean to being _the_ Dean..."

"If I didn't know for a fact I'd choke on the paperwork and the meetings with time-wasting assholes in the first week, and murder my first bean-counter before the end of the calendar month, it'd almost be worth it," mused Dean, "Just to see the look on Zachariah's face. Smug bastard. Maybe I should express an interest, just to watch him squirm."

"Nobody would believe you," chuckled Sam.

"Hey, if I find the guy who parked in my spot and punch him in the face, can you sort it out for me?"

"The School of Engineering will do everything it can to hang on to you, I'm sure," Sam replied serenely. "They know that you could walk onto any campus in the country, or overseas for that matter, and be welcomed with inarticulate little noises of intellectual delight. Given your publication record and success with bringing in grants, if you ask nicely, I can probably convince them to take you back after you've served a custodial sentence. I'll have to check the faculty policy on employing staff with a criminal record of violent offences, though."

"Bitch." Dean consulted his watch and sighed. "Fuck, I'd better get going. Zachie-boy gives me a face like a cat's ass if I'm late. Not like I miss anything useful. Actually, he gives me a face like a cat's ass every time he sees me..."

"You might've missed notice of a visiting academic," Sam told him, "Maybe if you paid attention in meetings or read your departmental emails occasionally, you'd know the details of what's going on."

"Screw that," Dean humphed dismissively, "If it's somethin' really important, somebody will come and find me and tell me about it."

"For a start, you might have some idea of who took your precious parking space."

"Fuck, you sound like Ash. Stop it." brushing crumbs off himself, Dean stood up. "Hey, I'll call you later if I need bailing out."

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Some people thought that Professor Dean Winchester arrived at work every morning smiling because he loved his job. Some people thought that he arrived smiling because it annoyed the hell out of senior administrative staff, and he knew it. Some people thought that he arrived smiling because he probably got laid the previous night.

Any of those could be true at any given time, but a large part of why he arrived smiling was because he drove to work, and that meant time spent with his Baby.

On this particular day, though, he'd started off cranky, and had only become crankier.

On the walk back across campus, Dean passed the lot where he always parked his beloved Impala, in a space at the far end where he could see her from the window of his cluttered office. He was usually an early starter, so he always got _that_ spot, and everybody _knew_ it was _his Baby'_ s spot. Well, so he thought.

He scowled at the interloper, a dark blue right-hand drive coupe utility, sitting squat and malevolent.

 _In his Baby's spot._

He was still scowling as he made his way back to the room that was allegedly his office, although there was a lot more workshop equipment strewn around on every horizontal surface than the average academic would deploy. He was just beginning another assault on his email in-tray and trying to think up a not-blatantly-untrue excuse to skip the afternoon's meeting when a voice cut into his thoughts.

"Hey, Prof!"

He turned to see Ash, the most underrated and overcompetent technician ever to get the boot from MIT, grinning at him. "You still wanna throw those children off the dyno tomorrow? The ignition's ready to go, but the readout was fritzy last time, I think your latest Franken-engine risked blowing the ass out of it before it tore itself to pieces. Oh, and I got a name for ya."

"Huh?" Dean kicked his chair back.

"The intruder? Stole your parking space? You've been bitching about it all morning?" Ash reminded him. "I got a suspect. New arrival, visiting academic, all the way from sunny Queensland, Australia!" He grinned.

"Right hand drive," growled Dean.

"Yup. Looks like somebody couldn't bear to leave their car behind any more than you could."

"Great, so they'll understand when I tell 'em to get the fuck out of my spot. So, who do I have to punch to get my spot back?"

"One Ronnie Shepherd," replied Ash. "Zachie-boy seems quite excited about it. Wants his staff to make a good impression this afternoon."

"Right," Dean smiled slowly, turning back to the screen. "That would explain this email sayin' that I don't have to come if I've got somethin' real important goin' on in the lab that needs my full attention..."

"Leave it with me," Ash said airily, "I'll make it look like you never got to open it before you dutifully went off to your meeting."

Dean stood up. "You know, Sam does keep saying that I should make more of an effort to tune in to faculty business," he said with a grin, "I should make a start."

"Don't get blood on the carpet," Ash called after him cheerfully.

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Zachariah Godson looked around as the academic staff settled themselves into the small lecture room, and noted with satisfaction that there were a couple of absences. It wasn't like their newest arrival wouldn't be immersed in the real culture of the place – warts and Winchester and all – soon enough, but he believed that first impressions were important, and he wanted this to start well.

He stood up. "I think we'll begin," he announced in the slightly pompous tone he always used in meetings, "First item on the agenda is grant applications that need to be submitted before the end of semester..."

He was onto his third PowerPoint slide when the door banged open; he sighed inwardly.

"Don't mind me, Zach," the faculty's most popular, productive and infuriating professor offered him a cocky grin as he leaned back to put his boots on the table in front of him, "Just carry on... oh, you're just hassling us about paperwork again, so I haven't missed anything really important."

Clenching his teeth as a titter ran around the room, Zachariah carried on; as he slid down the bannister of life, he reflected briefly, Dean Winchester was one of the biggest and pointiest splinters. He was practised at ignoring the man's pointed sighs, watch checks and extravagant yawns in meetings. Otherwise, on this occasion, Dean was remarkably quiet, for which Zachariah was grateful, because a meeting with a well-structured agenda was one of the things he liked about his job.

The last slide flashed up. "And so, if there are any issues that we can deal with simply that staff would like to raise..."

"I got an issue." Dean sat up straight and glared at Zachariah. "Somebody parked in my spot this morning."

The Dean glared back at Dean. "Professor Winchester, I know that you are fully aware that there are no specifically assigned parking spaces for academic staff..."

"Maybe not officially," Dean's demeanour became grim. "But everybody knows I park my Baby there, so I can keep an eye on her. Except somebody didn't clue in the new guy." His gaze raked the room. "So, where are you, new guy? Ronnie Shepherd, wasn't it? Just introduce him, Zacho, so I can forgive him just once, and tell him to stay the hell out of my personal space."

Zachariah's mouth opened and shut a couple of times, then he found his voice. "Er, well, yes, if that's all, for those who haven't been introduced yet, I, er, yes, as you know, we have a visiting academic, and I, uh, if I could just introduce..."

"Veronica Shepherd." A woman who had been sitting a couple of seats away stood up and spoke in a thick Antipodean accent. She turned and offered Dean brilliant smile – or she could've been baring her teeth. "Though I've gone by 'Ronnie' since I was about two years old. I'm passingly familiar with your work, Professor Winchester," she said it the way someone might remark on the fact that a kindergartener had managed to shove a crayon up his own nose all by himself, "And I think that there may be some scope for productive collaboration..."

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"And then," Dean's voice quivered with outrage, "And _then_ , she said, 'By the time I'm done here we'll have you on your way to your first Nobel'!"

"That's quite possibly the worst Australian accent I've ever heard," commented Jess as she put his plate in front of him. "And I've seen 'Pacific Rim' and 'The Great Escape'."

"I mean, who the fuck does Zachie-boy think he is?" Dean sailed on across Lake Outrage, powered by the wind gusting down from High Dudgeon. "He pulls in some complete unknown, and she says she's gonna fix _my_ research, and..."

"Dean, she's a world leader in her field," Sam cut in – after his brother had called and launched into a tirade against the interloper who stole his parking space, he knew that it would continue when Dean came over for dinner, and he wanted to arm himself with some facts to counter his brother's rant. _Yeah_ , he thought, _Using rational argument and evidence on Dean when he's determined to be outraged is a long shot, but hope springs eternal. How the guy ever wrote anything that got past peer review for publication was some sort of miracle._ "She has an extensive publication record in high impact journals. This is a woman who has introduced several completely new alloys and casting techniques to industry. And you keep complaining that current materials can't keep up with your genius – didn't you say that part of your latest design is still embedded in the test chamber because nobody can figure out how to remove it without pulling down the ceiling?"

"Plus, she looks like the east-facing end of a west-facing tank," Dean complained.

"Well, that right there is clearly enough reason to dislike her intensely," Jess rolled her eyes, familiar with her brother-in-law's capacity for melodramatics arising from any perceived insult to his car.

"She's going to be your colleague, like it or not," Sam said firmly, "So you don't have to like her, but you do have to get along with her in an appropriately professional manner."

"Spoken like a true lawyer," humphed Dean.

"Look, she brought her car with her," Jess pointed out, "She clearly loves it as much as you love yours, that's something you have in common."

"Had you stopped for a moment to consider just how productive a collaboration with a materials engineering specialist could be?" Sam suggested. "Lighter, stronger parts, with better tensile strength..."

"Stick to your writs, bitch," scowled Dean. "I don't tell you how to run your job."

"It could be fun to let you do that, just for a day," Sam mused. "Moot court would be entertaining. The bit where you demonstrated how to grab the defendant by the shirt and punch him until he tells you what he did with the cars he stole would be pretty damned educational."

"I wouldn't punch him!" Dean protested.

"No?"

"No. For car theft, I'd stab him."

"Of course."

"Or maybe string him up from the nearest street light."

"Ah."

"As a warning to others."

"Uh-huh."

"That stealing cars is not something a civilised community will tolerate."

"Is hanging people from lampposts civilised?"

"If you're doin' it to car thieves, it's not just civilised, it's an absolute necessity. It aint murder, it's vermin control."

"Right."

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The next morning he left home ten minutes earlier, but when Dean's Baby rumbled into the lot, he scowled.

The blue pick-up was parked in his space. _Again_.

The expression on his face would've frightened the most cynical and hardened of Sam's colleagues. As it was, when he stomped into the workshop, Ash just looked up and said, "Whoa, who stole your candy?"

"Nobody," Dean ground out, "That, that, that _noob_ has stolen my parking spot again!"

"Uh, yeah," Ash turned back to the tangle of wiring hanging out of a console, "Said she wanted to get in early, make a start on getting her workshop set up, then there'll be paperwork, you know what that crap can be like..."

"Did you tell her to get the fuck out of my spot?" Dean demanded.

"I didn't know she was in your spot," Ash replied reasonably, completely familiar with his boss's capacity for unreasonable overreaction in matters pertaining to his car.

When Dean was working himself into a snit about a perceived wrong done to his car, he wasn't about to be derailed by reason. "I mean, what the fuck is a 'Maloo' anyway? It sounds like something out of The Jungle Book!"

"That was Baloo," Ash corrected equably. "Maloo is an indigenous Australian dialect word for 'thunder'."

"How the fuck do you know that?"

"I looked it up. Well, I didn't exactly look that up specifically. It was mentioned in the specs."

Dean turned a smouldering expression on his tech, who regarded him with unalarmed curiosity. "You know, some of your female students, if they came in here and saw you lookin' at me like that they'd go home and cry themselves to sleep..."

"Why were you lookin' up that thing's specs?" Dean growled as dangerously as a blueprinted V8.

"Well, I heard him come in this morning," Ash replied, poking at the wiring thoughtfully. "Man, he growls like a horny tiger..."

"Him?" Dean cut in. "Him? Him? He?"

"Oh, his name's Bruce," Ash smiled. "Your Baby is in good company – you know, he'll put out 570 Newton-metre at the crank under test conditions, which means..."

"Which means it's an over-engineered tank," Dean spat, "Which means it's meant to be hauling stuff on a construction site somewhere, which means it cannot compare to my Baby, because she's a classic, and it's STILL in my Baby's spot!"

"Well, to be fair, I think she was bringin' some stuff into the building..." Ash began.

"I don't care if she was jugglin' chainsaws and whistlin' Dixie!" Dean cut him off.

Ash considered that. "Wow," he said eventually, "That would be a hell of an act. Anybody who could do that would be wasted at university."

"I'm gonna sort this out right now," Dean stated firmly, Heading out of the workshop, "She was movin' into Hal's old lab, with the furnace, yeah?"

"Hey, chief, I don't know if it's a good idea to..." began Ash. He was too late; Dean was already striding along the corridor, looking neither left nor right until he reached the lab space that was coming back into use. He banged the door in without knocking.

"You in here, Shepherd?" he demanded without preamble, looking around at the space; it had been cleared, and there were instrument boxes and a couple of large tool kits moved in.

"Somebody there?" an accented voice called from the corridor. "Ah, Dean, isn't it? Him with the cool car. She is seriously cool, isn't she? Good, male muscle to help."

He turned to see the object of his ire standing in the doorway – she was pulling one of the electric department's electric trolley behind her. It was loaded with an assortment of items associated with metalworking, including an anvil. Without pausing, she picked up a box. "This thing won't make it through the door, I checked, so," she picked up a box, "Just on the bench there, ta."

"Yeah, my car is – _ngh_ – seriously cool," Dean agreed, his knees sagging under the weight of the box.

"Is she the '67 or the '68?" asked Professor Shepherd eagerly, handing him another.

"1967," he snapped, "And – _hgh_ – I want to talk to you about my car..."

"She's in the most beautiful condition," the woman noted, "I always seem to have trouble just keeping Bruce more or less clean. His cab is a disgrace, I'm afraid. Still smells of dog, although old Roo went to the Rainbow Bridge last year."

"Yeah, well I wanna – _hmgh_ – talk to you about your car, too..."

"He's a working boy, of course," she sighed, "He's not subtle, but I need his grunt to cart my stuff around – I do like to tinker at home. You know how it is, samples, test plates – poor thing, his tray looks like a blacksmith's cast-offs pile most of the time. He goes through shocks the way other cars go through tyres."

"Well, you're gonna have to fi- _ngh_ – AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

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Sam walked into his brother's house to find him sitting on the sofa with his foot propped on a pillow. Dean began without preamble. "I want to sue that bitch," he snapped.

"Huh?" He put down the coffee and pie he'd picked up on the way, "What for?"

"For injuring me!" Dean yelled, "For breaking my foot!"

"Dean, it's not broken," Sam countered, "According to the clinic report, it's only bruised!"

"Badly bruised!" Dean yapped back, "She assaulted me!"

Sam tried not to roll his eyes. "Dean, you dropped an anvil on your foot."

"She handed it to me funny."

"She said you had hold of it, then dropped it."

"Well, it was too heavy! It was a fucking anvil, Sammy! Who the fuck carries an anvil around?"

"It's completely reasonable for a professor of metallurgy to have an anvil in her laboratory."

"It's not completely reasonable for her to drop it on my foot!"

"She didn't – you dropped it."

"Well what the fuck was she doin' handing it to me anyway?"

"She said she thought you'd come to help, Dean!" Sam replied in an exasperated tone. "Although in hindsight, I agree that her assumption that you were just behaving in a professional manner to assist a colleague was pretty damned optimistic on her part. She said... er..."

"What?" Dean's eyes narrowed as his brother visibly tried to back-pedal. "What did she say?"

"She said, uh," Sam hesitated, "She said... you looked like you could manage it."

"Well, she should've asked," Dean snarled.

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed, "Because if that woman, whom you've decided to detest, had asked you, 'Oh, hey, Winchester, can you handle the weight of this anvil that I can pick up effortlessly, or is it too much for you?', you'd have considered the matter carefully and replied, 'Well, I don't have a lot of regular practice with lifting extremely heavy awkwardly shaped objects the way you obviously do, perhaps I'd better just give this one a miss in case it's too much', because your ego would definitely let you do that..."

"I can pick up heavy objects!" Dean protested. "I can pick up you!"

Sam gave his brother a level stare. "Dean, I hate to break this to you, but you remember how you said she looks like the east-facing end of a west-facing tank?"

"Yeah, she does."

"Well, frankly, her arms are bigger than yours, bro. I'm not sure I'd want to meet her in a dark alley."

"It's all her fault," Dean muttered, "I'm injured, and it's all her fault."

"Dean, she hasn't stopped apologising!" Sam huffed, "She did everything right! She got you an ice pack, and she took you straight to the campus clinic!"

"She put me on the electric trolley, Sam!" Dean yelped with horror. "She picked me up, she put me on that thing, and she towed me across the campus on the electric trolley!"

"Well you couldn't walk," Sam pointed out, "And it was the fastest way to get you there."

"People saw, Sam!" Dean howled with outraged embarrassment, "People _saw_ me, sittin' on the bed of a bright orange electric trolley, bein' towed across the campus! It was humiliating!"

Sam let out a sigh, relieved in the knowledge that the only real damage had been done to his brother's ego. "Look, you've got the rest of the day off, just to rest your foot, and it'll be okay for you to get back to work in a day or two, you had your boots on and they took the brunt of it. Anyway," he couldn't help twisting the knife just a little, "It was only her small anvil. You should see the size of the other one..."

"Plus, my Baby is stranded, "Dean moaned pitifully, "She's stuck in the campus lot, where I can't keep an eye on her, you have to go and rescue my car, Sam..."

"Already in hand, bro," Sam assured him, carefully keeping his face straight, "I knew you'd want it back safely home, so I talked to Ash, and made arrangements. It should be home any minute now."

"She, Sam," Dean grumbled, subsiding somewhat as he reached for his coffee and cocked his head, listening for the familiar rumble of the Impala. "My Baby is a she."

"It won't get here any faster with you sitting there looking like a spaniel on point."

"Shut up, bitch."

Dean was halfway through his coffee when the growling gurgle of a well-maintained V8 came into earshot. "About time," he snapped, levering himself upright and picking up his crutches. "I gotta get the garage open."

He made it out the front door just as the Chevrolet classic pulled carefully into the driveway. "Leave it right there," he instructed, "I'll put her inside."

The driver's side door opened, and the driver got out. "Maybe Sam can do it," said Ronnie Shepherd, giving him an anxious smile as she tossed the keys to him. "You'll have no trouble driving her, what with the auto transmission, but you should be resting your foot..."

Dean gawped in horror at his car, then at his brother.

"She was so keen to help, bro," Sam said innocently, "And when I told her that you'd be worried about your car, well, she said that bringing it home to you would be the least she could do, so Ash got the spare keys, and..."

There was a moment when Dean's appalled gaze went from Sam, then to Ronnie, then back to Sam. He was, Sam realised, trying to decide which one of them he was angriest with.

He made a decision.

With an ululating yodel that could only be interpreted as a war cry, Dean launched himself off the top step at Ronnie.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" she screeched as they toppled to the ground.

"You asshole!" he bellowed as they grappled, "Who said you could drive my car!"

"Sam did!" she snapped back angrily as they rolled across the grass. "I was trying to help!"

"You broke my foot!"

"It's not broken!"

"It could've been!"

"I SAID I was SORRY!"

"You threw an anvil at me, you cow!"

"You dropped it, you dickhead!"

"YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE PARKED IN MY SPOT!"

"I DIDN'T _KNOW_ IT WAS YOUR FUCKING SPOT!"

"You fucking harpy!"

"You bloody drama queen!"

"DON'T YOU **DARE** PARK IN MY SPOT **EVER AGAIN**!"

" _FUCK YOUR SPOT AND THE HORSE IT RODE IN ON!"_

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Sam was able to separate them before they did any damage to each other. After ordering Dean back to the sofa, then parking the Impala in the garage, he gave Ronnie a lift back to the campus, agreeing with her that, yes, her brother was indeed an ungrateful unreasonable jerk.

That night, as he told Jess what had happened, she laughed out loud.

"Sounds like they're so alike, there are bound to be sparks," she chuckled.

"Yeah," he sighed. "When Alpha personalities collide. Why couldn't they just bond nice and quietly over a mutual interest in high performance cars?"

"Well, look on the bright side," she suggested, "If they don't kill each other by the end of the academic year, they could make a hell of a collaboration."

"Yeah, right, it was a hell of a 'collaboration' they had going in Dean's yard," Sam didn't sound convinced. "World Wrestling Collaboration. I think we can put it down to Dean's painkillers, but seriously, aren't they supposed to both be adults? I mean, I know he can be unreasonable about his car, but she was as bad as him! I'm not sure that launching yourself off your porch to attack a new workmate is necessarily a good way to start off a professional relationship."

"I'd pay to see Dean Godson's face if he found out," Jess mused, with just a touch of evil in her voice.

"Well, nobody saw," Sam said gloomily, "So I suggested that they pretend it didn't happen, and we will never speak of it again."

"If nothing else, their relationship will be interesting," Jess suggested, "Great collaborations have had worse beginnings."

"I'll be happy if they don't kill each other," Sam shrugged fatalistically. "I mean, I'm good, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't get Dean off a charge of blatant homicide."

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Sam didn't have to worry; it would turn out that Jess was right, as she liked to point out to him from time to time.

And, as Dean always liked to point out, it meant that his 'How I Met My Wife' story was more interesting that his little brother's.

* * *

Send reviews to feed the plot bunnies - they fuel the fickriter to rite ficks. Can they get sillier than this? Let's wait and see...


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